


Tolkienverse Prompt Fills

by Elsajeni



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Arranged Marriage, Baby Dwarves, F/M, Female Bilbo, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Hobbit Advent, M/M, One Shot Collection, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 22:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 10,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1320892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin — a collection of one-shot fills for Tolkienverse prompts. See chapter titles and notes for more detailed information on each ficlet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Radagast talks to an Ent

**Author's Note:**

> "Radagast talks (or tries to) to an Ent," prompt sent by [penniform](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penniform).
> 
> Finglas, or Leaflock, is one of the very few Ents as old as Treebeard still living at the time of the War of the Ring; by that time, he has grown sleepy and tree-like, and rarely if ever moves. This ficlet takes place roughly a thousand years earlier, when he was a younger and more adventurous Ent.
> 
> Also, WIZARDS ARE HARD TO WRITE, Y'ALL.

"Pardon me," a colossally deep, slow voice says from behind him, and Radagast startles — as far as he knows, he’s alone in these woods but for a few birds and small beasts.

He turns around, a bit hesitantly, and sees — nothing. Nothing at all. Only the woods, and a bluetit on a branch, and although he wouldn’t be terribly surprised to be spoken to by a bird, no bluetit in the world has a voice like _that_.

Then the voice comes again, repeating, “Pardon me,” and Radagast looks up to its source, and realizes there are _eyes_ , deep and ancient eyes, peering down at him from the branches above, and in an instant understands what — or _who_ — he is facing.

"Herdsman!" he says, delighted. "Well met! I have heard many tales of your kind, but never dared hoped to meet one." He pauses, collects himself, and then gives a bow and adds, "My name is Radagast the Brown, of the Order Istarion. It is an honor to hear your great voice, Herdsman, and I place myself at your service."

There is a long moment of silence; the Ent regards him with what might be puzzlement. Then it, too, bows — or comes as close as it can, at least; its trunk is broad and thick-barked, and it does not seem to bend easily — and says in the same vast voice, “Well met, wizard. I am—” here he makes a long series of _hum_ and _hoom_ and _burrum_ sounds, going on for what seems like several minutes— “or Finglas in the Elvish tongue, which is shorter.”

"I think I will call you Finglas, then, if you don’t mind it," Radagast says, still rather entranced. "But I must ask — I have walked these woods for the better part of a thousand years, but you are the first Ent I have ever seen. Are your kind so well-hidden among the trees?"

"We are well-hidden," Finglas replies. "But not among these trees — we do not walk here, not in the usual course of things. I have come so far west only because I am searching."

"Searching?"

The Ent hesitates, and then says, “We have lost the Entwives. Perhaps... I suppose from what you say that you have not seen them, but perhaps you have heard word of them?”

"Entwives?" Radagast echoes, and then, "Good heavens — do you mean the women of your kind?"

"The bearers of fruit," Finglas rumbles, nodding his great leafy head. "They are lost to us; we have sought them for many years, though we dare not go too far from our own forests, in case they should come back. This is, I think, the furthest afield I have ever ventured."

"I see." Radagast takes a moment to consider the question; he has heard tales of the Ents, after all, and perhaps in one of them there was some mention of the Entwives. He can recall no such reference, though, and in the end is forced to shake his head and say, "I have heard nothing of them."

Finglas’s face falls, and even his leaves seem to droop; Radagast yearns to offer him some hope, and suddenly an idea occurs to him and he offers, “Perhaps I could watch for them? The birds and beasts of these woods are my friends, you see, and I could ask them to listen for news of your wives in their travels. If I sent word to you — by a bird, perhaps, or a squirrel — could you understand them?”

"I could," Finglas allows. "You would do that? Listen for news, and send on what you find?"

"Gladly."

"Then carry with you my gratitude, and the name of Ent-friend," Finglas says, with another stiff bow, and turns to leave the little clearing.

Before he’s quite gone, though, he turns back and adds, “But leave the squirrels out of it, if you would. They are a _terrible_ nuisance.”


	2. Thorin/Dwalin, space military AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thorin/Dwalin, space opera-esque military sci-fi AU," prompt sent by [bartonstroud](http://bartonstroud.tumblr.com).
> 
> ("You know I'm just going to write you a Rogue Squadron fic and then change the names, right?" "Yeah, I can live with that.")

"I’m disappointed," a youthful voice crackles over the comm — one of the two new recruits, Dwalin decides, though he can’t tell whether it’s Five or Six without looking at the display and isn’t willing to take his eyes off the goblin fighters to find out. "When you said ‘goblins,’ I was expecting a real fight. I mean, honestly, what d’you call this? They’re hardly even trying!"

"Less chatter, Six," Thorin’s voice replies crisply — leave it to him to know their voices already, of course. "And don’t get overconfident."

"Lad’s right, though," Dwalin mutters to himself — not over the comm; he doesn’t care to be scolded for _chattering_ — and reaches out to fine-tune his sensor settings, scanning for some hint of what the hell the goblins are up to.

He spots the trap in the split-second before it springs and curses, bringing up his shields with one hand and slapping at the comm switch with the other. “The asteroid,” he barks, “watch the asteroid—” But it’s already too late; there’s a long moment of chaos as the goblin ships pour out of the asteroid’s hidden bays, a half-dozen squadrons of mismatched, scavenged fighter craft, and the dwarves scramble to defend, and then there’s a blast somewhere to Dwalin’s right and someone yelps, “Hit, left engine,” over the comm.

"Try to hold it together, Five," Thorin orders. "Six, stay with him if you can, watch his tail. Whoever’s closest, get to them, clear them a vector back to Erebor."

"I’m losing maneuvering," Five says, sharp and tense. Dwalin curses under his breath, searches for a path through the goblin ships to him, and then it’s suddenly a moot point — there’s Raven One darting in, moving in a mad spiraling dance and spitting laser fire in every direction, and over the comm Thorin barks, "Go, both of you — shit, _all_ of you! Ravens, full retreat, I’ll buy as much time as I can!”

"You _fucking idiot_ ,” Dwalin growls, entirely forgetting that his comm is still live, and pushes the throttle forward, roars in after him.

* * *

They’re the last two back to Erebor’s fighter bay; Dwalin clambers out of his cockpit as Thorin is docking and loiters there, not willing to leave until he’s seen for himself that his commander — his best friend — is still in one piece.

_And apologized for calling him a fucking idiot_ , he reminds himself with a grimace, watching Thorin slide down over the wing of his fighter and cross the bay to where he’s waiting. _Not one of your finer moments, you great lummox._

He does mean to apologize, really; then Thorin stalks up to him and says, his voice icy, “Don’t ever speak to me like that on an open channel again,” and Dwalin’s temper flares and he hears himself saying instead, “Don’t take stupid risks, then.”

"I ought to demote you," Thorin snaps. "Or have you transferred to Commander Ironfoot’s squadron, and let you see what he thinks of your attitude—"

"Shut _up_ ,” Dwalin growls, grabs Thorin by the front of his flightsuit, and kisses him.

Thorin stiffens, makes a startled noise, and Dwalin pulls back at once, ready to apologize; then Thorin’s arms come up and catch him by the shoulders, pull him back in, and as their lips meet again, all thoughts of apologies and insubordination and threatened demotions fly out of his mind.


	3. Thorin faces the power of the Arkenstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [ladytemeraire](http://ladytemeraire.tumblr.com/)'s comment in [this post](http://ladytemeraire.tumblr.com/post/62657328779/elsajeni-abandonedporn-the-witches-castle), in which a spooky abandoned place is made whole and new again when you step over the threshold.

He can hardly bear to look around him. Everywhere, there is some painful memory — the great hall before the gates, haunted now by the shadows of burned dwarves on its walls; the guardhouse where he had his first lessons in swordsmanship, knee-deep in ash and filth; the staircase to the royal apartments, collapsed and impassable. After a few days he consciously tries to stop looking, to go about without lifting his eyes from the floor; that lasts until he realizes there are shadows on the floor-stones, too, in any part of the city that Smaug reached.

Then, at last, they break through the rubble blocking the treasury door. Thorin walks in with his eyes still downcast, afraid of what he might see here, and stands for a long moment on the threshold; then he looks up at the heaps of treasure, and freezes.

He tries, at first, to see some rational explanation for it — insists to himself that it must be a trick of the light, strange flickering reflections off gold and jewels. But the glow at the center of the room does not fade; rather, it grows, and spreads, and as it does, everything it touches is made... new. Whole. As it was before the dragon.

"What is this?" he says hoarsely, and looks to the others, and realizes from their faces that they cannot see it. Then a voice, very distant but very clear, seems to whisper at the back of his mind: _My spell is for you alone, O King. But find me — come to me — and I will give you your home again, as it was. As it should be._

 _This is where the Arkenstone was lost_ , Thorin thinks, and suddenly he _knows_ , beyond a moment’s doubt, that it is the stone’s voice he hears. He takes two steps forward, moving as if in a trance; then his foot slides on a heap of coins, and in regaining his balance he is brought back to himself.

He closes his eyes to the stone’s illusion — the rubble swept away, the cracks in the walls healed, the tapestries cleaned and re-woven and shining in the torchlight as they once did — and reminds himself firmly, _This is where Thror was nearly lost as well_. Then he turns on his heel and leaves the treasury, saying over his shoulder as he goes, “We should not linger here too long.”

Behind him, as he walks away, he can hear Balin ordering that the door be closed again, and locked.

 _There is no lock in Erebor I cannot open_ , he hears in the back of his mind, and shudders.


	4. Dís's betrothal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dís's betrothal, in the immediate aftermath of Azanulbizar. Inspired by [this image prompt](http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/58253381841/writers-block-a-picture-says-a-thousand-words) from [WriteWorld](http://writeworld.tumblr.com).

Three days after the battle, without bothering to ask what remains of her family for their blessing, Dís makes up her mind — walks across the encampment to Vigg’s tent, takes a deep breath and says, “I accept you, Vigg son of Vitr. I will take you to husband.”

"We’ll have a long courtship, then," he says, reaching out toward the mourning-marks traced in ash and coal-dust on her face; she can feel the warmth of his hand, just an inch from her cheek, and it’s an effort not to lean into it, to let him wipe her skin clean of her grief.

"We don’t have to," she says instead, and enjoys the shocked look he gives her.

* * *

She goes directly back to her mother’s tent, kneels before Freja and says, “I am to be married. Will you give your blessing?”

Dís has prepared herself for a host of possible reactions, but she is not prepared for this: Freja begins to weep. She has not wept since the battle — since Thorin came to her with the news, she has been stone and steel, as if she expects that even grief and death will bow down and retreat before a sufficiently queenly exterior. But now she weeps, and these are no silent, dignified tears, but great rending sobs, painful even to listen to.

"Mother," Dís says, alarmed, and then, louder, " _Mother_. I should have asked you first, I know, but it’s only Vigg — it’s not as if I’m going far away — ‘Amad, _please_ , it’s all right!”

"It is _not_ ,” Freja manages, through her tears. “How can I give you my blessing? How can I see you married, when—” Dís braces herself for a list of possible objections, from her age to the freshness of the family’s mourning; she is not prepared, though, for Freja to finish, “When there is nowhere for you to sit your vigil?”

Dís stares for a long moment, and then says, “Really?”

"You would have had the most beautiful bride-house," Freja says; she is still weeping, though she has at least calmed a bit. "The same one where I sat my vigil. There were crystals in the walls that shone like starlight, and the lace in the hangings was so fine — I have never seen its like."

Dís stops herself, with an effort, from rolling her eyes — Erebor is only a dim memory to her, and the thought of mourning over lost lace, however beautifully tatted, strikes her as ridiculous. Instead, she sighs and says, “It does sound wonderful. But, ‘Amad — surely we can make a bride-house here, can’t we?”

"Out of what?" Freja demands. "What hangings will you have? Where will you find white silks and laces, in this camp?"

"I’ll think of something," Dís insists, and retreats to her own tent to think.

* * *

Thorin helps her to build the bride-tent — it is her father’s place by right, but there has been no sign of him yet, so a brother will have to do in his stead. They are neither of them carpenters, though, and it takes them several attempts at hammering together the tent’s wooden frame to achieve something that, if not exactly straight, will at least stand upright; then Dís opens her trunk of hangings and begins draping them as best she can, and Thorin stares.

"What is that?" he asks eventually, gesturing to the fabric in her hands.

"This," Dís says, shaking out the folded rectangle, "is a tablecloth. It belongs to Auntie Sudri. But more importantly, it’s white lace, and so suitable for a bride-house."

"And these?" This time the gesture encompasses most of the fabric already hanging on the tent-frame.

Dís shrugs. “The same sort of thing — nearly every woman in camp had _something_ she didn’t mind me using. There’s one other tablecloth, I think, and some bedsheets, and quite a lot of old clothes that aren’t wearable anymore.”

"It’s wonderful," Thorin says, and seems to mean it. "Everyone giving what they have, to see you properly married — it’s how it ought to be, isn’t it?"

"What a sweet thought," Dís says with a smile, and then adds, "It’s nearly sundown — you’d better go, or we’ll have to postpone everything another day."

As he leaves, she pins up the last scrap of fabric, then enters the tent and settles in for her vigil.

_I suspect I am the only dwarf of Durin’s line who has ever sat in a bride-house made mainly of petticoats_ , she thinks, and then, _Probably for the best that I didn’t mention that to Thorin_.


	5. Bombur meets his future wife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bombur courts/proposes to/or his proposal is accepted by his wife," prompt sent by [penniform](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penniform).
> 
> This ficlet takes place in the same timeline as my fic [Belonging Nowhere](http://archiveofourown.org/works/707968), although you don't need to have read that one for this one to make sense.

It has been a bloody long shift — everyone and their mother wants an offering-cake for Durin’s Day, apparently, and none of them bothered to order in advance — and Gynna is more than ready for dinner, a pint, and, as soon as she can get home to it, her warm bed. She flings herself into a seat at the Blue Pig’s long, polished bar, beckons to Andvari, and demands, “Stew. And porter. And a pillow, if you have one; I’ll have a nap while I wait for the stew.”

"Stew and porter, on the way — can’t help you with the pillow, though, I’m afraid," an unfamiliar, quiet voice says; Gynna looks up, startled, to see a strange ginger-haired dwarf in Andvari’s usual place, already turning around to pour her pint.

"Oh dear," she says, feeling her cheeks heat. "I thought — oh, I really _am_ out of it, you couldn’t look less like Andvari.”

That gets her a chuckle — and, more importantly, a mug of porter handed across the bar. It’s true, though; Andvari is a Stonefoot, too, and looks enough like her that they could be cousins, dark and bone-thin and sharp-featured, but this new barman is short, plump, pale and freckled beneath his long ginger beard.

He is also, by the look of him, _very_ young. Gynna frowns as he hands over her stew and asks, “Bit young for work, aren’t you? What is it, dad owns the place and you’re helping out?”

"My uncle, actually," the barman says quickly; he looks a bit ill-at-ease, though, and takes the first opportunity to disappear into the kitchen, and Gynna guesses it’s a lie, though clearly a well-practiced one.

* * *

Over the next months, Gynna grows accustomed to seeing the ginger-haired barman in Andvari’s place from time to time — he seems to work mainly the quieter shifts, between mealtimes and on holidays when most dwarves are home with their families; she hasn’t decided yet whether it’s because he’s young, because he’s new, or simply because he doesn’t like the crowds of the busier shifts.

They get to know each other, a bit. He learns her name, and her usual order, and that she’s always particularly exhausted and short-tempered on feast days, when the line at the bakery has been around the block all day; she, in turn, learns that he comes from a Broadbeam family, that he lives with a brother who’s a journeyman carpenter, and — eventually, when she starts to think it’s odd not to know and asks — that his name is Bombur.

He grows used to her tired feast-day joke of demanding a pillow, too; she only makes it three times a year or so, but the second and third times Bombur hears it, he does her the courtesy of laughing, and the fourth time, he surprises her — he actually does produce a pillow from under the bar, and then laughs much harder at the look on her face than he ever has at the request. After that, the old joke goes by the wayside, and the new joke is that she’ll find the pillow waiting for her on the bar if it’s a busy holiday, or sometimes if she has a particularly sour look on her face as she walks in.

It does always cheer her up, at least, and when she cracks a smile, so does Bombur.

* * *

At first it doesn’t seem _that_ strange that she hasn’t seen him for a week or two. After all, her work schedule’s been a bit odd since Saldís has been too heavily pregnant to come in, and it’s not as if he’s normally working _every_ time she stops by the Blue Pig anyway; it makes sense that their schedules might not overlap so much these days.

It does strike her as a bit strange how much she misses him, though — of course she’s come to enjoy his company, and the conversations they have across the bar, but then, the same was true of Andvari and she never felt so disappointed to walk in and not see him at the taps.

Eventually she asks, expecting to hear that he’s taken a few weeks off, or changed to the evening shift; instead, the new barman says, “Got promoted, lucky sod — old Hanar retired, our head cook, and he wouldn’t have anyone take his place but Bombur. You won’t see much of him, I suppose, now he’s always back in the kitchen.”

"Oh," Gynna says, frowning, and then, "I mean, I’m very happy for him — you’ll pass that along to him, won’t you?"

"Of course," the barman says with a smile, and then turns to serve another customer walking in, leaving her to stare into her porter and think.

By the time she leaves the pub, she’s worked it out. She doesn’t head straight home, as usual, although she does stop by her flat to pick up one thing; instead she stays in the market district, does a bit of shopping, chats with friends and distant cousins as they’re closing up their shops for the evening.

When the Blue Pig’s kitchen finally closes and Bombur steps out into the alleyway, she’s waiting there, her mother’s courtship beads burning a hole in her pocket.


	6. Thorin/Dwalin, after the Carrock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Thorin and Dwalin, whetstones," prompt sent by [aegistheia](http://aegistheia.tumblr.com).

They climb halfway down the Carrock before finding a narrow cave cut into its side — a fine place to rest for the night. Thorin, under orders from Oin not to exert himself, stays to one side, settling behind a broad-based stalagmite where he’s out of the way of the others as they set up camp; he soon finds himself dozing off, and he’s half-asleep already, leaning back against the cave wall, when Dwalin drops down beside him with an exasperated huff.

"Goblins," he says, in a tone of enormous contempt. "Look at this — you can see where they’ve had their filthy little paws all over it. Disgusting."

"Right," Thorin yawns, although as far as he can tell Keeper looks much the same as always — recently used, certainly, and splashed with warg blood, but entirely lacking in visible goblin paw-marks. "Best get it cleaned, then."

"That’s the plan," Dwalin grunts, and out of the corner of his eye, Thorin can see him digging through his pack — one of the few they managed to save from the goblins. He comes up after a moment with a cloth, and begins wiping down the axe, and Thorin leans back and shuts his eyes once again.

He’s woken, what seems like only a moment later, by Dwalin prodding him in the side and saying, in the low rumble that is his best effort at a whisper, “Got any oil left?”

"You have to be joking," Thorin groans. "Where’s yours?"

“ _Goblins_ ,” Dwalin says again; Thorin rolls his eyes and searches his pockets, and does turn up the small bottle of weapon oil he keeps close to hand. He gets a grunt of thanks when he hands it over; then Dwalin turns back to his work, settling his whetstone on his knee and shaking a few drops of oil onto it.

Thorin watches him coat the stone, broad fingers working carefully to smooth the oil thin and even over its surface. After a moment he lifts the stone, tilts it in the light, apparently studying his work; a drop of oil runs down the back of one finger, glistening off the rune inked on the knuckle, and Thorin has a sudden urge to reach over and wipe it away, trace the inked letters with his thumbnail, maybe badger Dwalin into letting the axes wait until morning.

_You’re injured_ , he chides himself firmly, and resolves to ignore Dwalin and go back to sleep. Unfortunately, it’s just at that moment that Dwalin, evidently satisfied with his oiled stone, picks Keeper back up and begins whetting its blade. The noise is just annoying enough to keep Thorin from dozing off, and he finds himself watching once again.

Dwalin’s hands are sure and steady, his gaze focused on his work; Thorin finds his own gaze traveling up Dwalin’s arm, fixing for a long moment on the way his muscles move with each slow sweep of the whetstone up the blade, and from there to his face — intent, brow creased just slightly in concentration, eyes fixed firmly on the blade and the stone.

Although, after he’s been watching for a few moments, Thorin does see those eyes flick over to him, just for an instant.

And then again.

And then Dwalin frowns, puts the axe down, turns to him and says, “You’re staring at me.”

"I like the look of you," Thorin says, with a sharp-edged grin. "Come over here and let me look closer."

"You are nothing but trouble," Dwalin informs him, rolling his eyes, but he does obligingly slide closer, and when Thorin pulls him down and rolls to lie close against him, he gives a little sigh, wraps an arm tight around Thorin’s shoulders and says quietly, "That business with the warg — too bloody close. Don’t do it again."

"I’ll do my best," Thorin says dryly, nestles his head into Dwalin's shoulder, and lets himself drift off toward sleep once more.


	7. Sam plans a going-away party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sam plans a party; complications ensue," prompt sent by — I am very pleased about this — my mom, after I reblogged a request for prompts to my personal blog.

"Your Mister Frodo," Rose begins — much as she may have shared Frodo’s home and table for nearly two years, and taken just as great a part in looking after him as Sam has, he remains firmly ‘Sam’s Mister Frodo’ to her — "has been acting strangely. He’s stirring up talk."

"Oh, when isn’t he?" Sam sighs, leaning back in his armchair. That gets him an unladylike snort of laughter from Rose; Elanor giggles, too, from over in her cot, as if she wants to be part of the joke even if she can’t understand it, and Sam grins as well as he goes on, "No, you’re right. He has been peculiar lately — not that I’d say so to anyone outside this hole, o’course. I reckon he’s planning something."

Rose tilts her head. “Planning what, then?”

"Well," Sam says, and finds himself reluctant to say it aloud. "Well... a going-away, I think. Just like Mister Bilbo did, all that time ago — only Mister Frodo’s trying harder than he did to keep it secret, and to leave the Shire with no one knowing."

"Leave the Shire?" Rose echoes, and then, "But Sam — secret from you? He wouldn’t, would he?”

Sam shrugs. “He didn’t mean to tell me when he left Before,” he says, and knows that Rose will hear the capital letter there and understand before _what_. “Only let me in on it when he had to. Now, though — no, I reckon he’ll tell me, before he goes. Just not yet.”

"Well, what about the rest of his friends, then?" Rose protests. "At least Bilbo threw himself a going-away party — it sounds as if your Mister Frodo means to go without anyone even getting to say good-bye!"

The memory of Frodo’s last going-away, and the conspiracy that stopped him leaving alone, rises in Sam’s mind — _such a long time ago_ , he thinks, and then, _no, three years, that’s hardly anything_ — and suddenly he has a plan. “I think,” he says with a smile, “we’ll manage a going-away party of sorts.”

Some weeks later, when Sam arrives home from the Grey Havens in no kind of mood for company to find the entire going-away party still hanging around Bag End, he rather regrets having guessed so well.


	8. Dís/Nori, Pacific Rim crossover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the "Crossover of My Choice" part of [this pairing meme](http://meressel.tumblr.com/post/57774407176/since-you-let-it-slip-dis-nori) I did some time ago.

Nori is _not_ joining the PPDC. He’s simply not the type — not the military type, not the heroic type, not the _joining-things_ type in general. This is a fact that Nori is very clear on, and he would be much happier if everyone else would get clear on it as well.

Unfortunately, the fact that he’s moved onto the Kodiak Island base and, on at least one occasion, turned up at the quartermaster’s office with an armload of difficult-to-find electrical parts seems to have confused matters somewhat.

"Look," he tells the officer who’s cornered him in the cafeteria, "I’m not enlisting. I thought I’d made that clear. I live with one of your mechanics, that’s all."

”Right,” the officer says, folding her arms over her chest and cocking an eyebrow. “With Dis Durin, isn’t it? And you’ve lived together since…?”

Nori frowns. “High school, off and on,” he says, and then, “Wait, is that what this is about? You think I’m, what, faking my entire life and history to get access to your cafeteria? Because I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you, but this—” he gestures at the greyish Salisbury steak on his tray— “is not exactly an elaborate-ploy-caliber entree.”

Unsurprisingly, that doesn’t get him the laugh he was looking for; the officer remains stony-faced as she says, “What this is about, Mr. Rison, is a new program that I think might suit the two of you. Tell me: does the phrase _drift-compatible_ mean anything to you?”

"You can’t be serious," Nori says.

* * *

He isn’t sure which is more unbelievable: that Fightmaster Taylor actually was serious, that she managed to convince him and Dis to take the piloting compatibility tests, or that they actually _passed_.

Not with particularly high marks, mind you; they only just cleared the bar to make the training program. But still — a pass is a pass. They are compatible.

And now they get to prove it in the simulator.

As the techs finish locking him into his suit, Nori glances over at Dis, already suited up and in her harness beside him, and grins. She shoots him a sharp look in return and orders, “Don’t be nervous,” which is a sure sign that she’s nervous herself; she always has been bossy in a crisis.

He briefly considers pointing that out, then thinks better of it and says instead, “No secrets after this, right? Sure you want to go through with it?”

"Chickening out, Rison?" Dis says with a tight grin, and then the techs are backing away, sealing them into the simulator pod, and a calm robotic voice is reading instructions over the radio: _Close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Clear your mind; count backwards from ten_ —

If the voice says anything more — gives one final instruction, or announces the activation of the Pons system, or anything of the sort — it’s lost in the rush of memory and feeling.

Nori has the sensation of being knocked back by a wave, the inrushing tide breaking around his knees. Every time he blinks, a new memory unfolds in front of him — sometimes his ( _the door swinging open, Dori staring, the policeman giving Nori a shake by the jacket-collar and demanding, “This your kid?”_ ), sometimes Dis’s ( _a faint hiccuping from down the hall, building gradually into a shriek, and a warm voice in the darkness saying, “No, you rest, I’ll get this one”_ ), every once in a while one that they share. Those are unsettling; he sees them from both perspectives at once, giving them the feel of an out-of-body experience.

He’s on the verge of saying _Let’s do it, let’s try to move this thing_ when another memory catches at the periphery of his attention — _smoke, sirens in the distance, someone shouting into the phone “What the hell do you mean, ‘not in school’ — well where is he, then, where the hell is my brother, WHERE—”_ and he’s just realizing what he’s seeing, recognizing the day of the Seattle attack, when a brick wall slams into place around the borders of the memory and — out loud, out in the real world outside of the drift — Dis says, “ _No_.”

They’re both jarred out of it at the same moment, coming back to themselves shaky and disoriented in the simulator pod, to the sound of Fightmaster Taylor’s voice over the intercom, sharp with disappointment: “Well. I’d call that a fail.”

* * *

"Say, Doc," Nori says, leaning as casually as he can against the doorjamb. "I caught your lecture the other day — all that stuff about ghost-drifting, you really think it’s true?"

The analyst studies him for a moment, looking as if she’s matching him to a mental catalog of PPDC personnel. “Quartermaster, right?” she says eventually. “Nori Rison? Dropped out of pilot training?”

"Washed out," Nori corrects her, with a crooked grin. "In record time, or so they tell me."

She nods, then shrugs. “You tell me, then. Ever seen a ghost?”

He thinks of how Dis sleeps curled on one side now, like him, when she used to sprawl like a starfish; how he’s caught himself tossing his head the same way she does when she’s irritated; how sometimes they start to talk at the same time, and only realize three words in that they’re saying the same thing.

How clearly he can still feel her there, in the back of his mind, haunting the edges of his thoughts.

"Does it go away?" he asks — which isn’t an answer to the question, exactly, but the analyst lets out a little huff of laughter, and he has the feeling she understands.

"No one’s reported that," she says. "Not yet, anyway." Then she pauses a moment, seems to study him again, and adds, "Are you hoping it does, or hoping it doesn’t?"

By the time she finishes asking, the door’s already closing behind Nori, and he’s halfway down the corridor and halfway to convincing himself that he didn’t hear the question.

If he didn’t hear it, after all, he doesn’t have to wonder what his answer would be.


	9. Fili/Kili (non-incest AU), spies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fili/Kili, spies," prompt sent by [penniform](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penniform). A non-incest AU — Fili and Kili are not related in this universe.

Kili shuffles through the stack of papers — all the documents relating to his cover, and the coded newspaper he's meant to carry, and a brief dossier on the SMAUG agents known to be operating in the area — and says brightly, "Well, this looks simple enough," mostly because he knows it will irritate the Oak.

It does, to Kili's secret delight; he can practically hear the old man's teeth grinding before he says sharply, "Many things _look_ simple. Few things are."

"Ah, you're just a pessimist," Kili says with an airy wave of his hand — his left hand, of course, the better to show off the new golden band he wears. "I think you said the same thing about fraternizing with a fellow agent, and look how well that's turned out."

The Oak _grins_ then, which is worrying, and says, "Ah, of course — I did think I'd forgotten to mention something. You'll be working with a partner on this one." He reaches into a drawer and pulls out another bundle of documents, tosses them across the desk to Kili. "Have a look."

It's Fili's face on the passport, and Kili knows he ought to be suspicious, but he can't help beaming. "Aw, chief, how thoughtful! You know we haven't had a honeymoon yet."

"Keep looking."

Kili flips a few more pages, and then freezes, and stares at the papers. " _Brothers_?" he demands. "Really? Brothers?"

When he looks up, the Oak is grinning again. "Enjoy your honeymoon," he says, syrup-sweet, and as Kili stalks out of the office he reflects, not for the first time, that he ought to know better than to antagonize the man who even SMAUG's chief is rumored to fear.


	10. Hobbit Advent: Tradition -- a traditional gift for a milestone name-day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On certain milestone name-days in a young dwarf’s life, the spirits of stone and mountain — with, perhaps, a little assistance from the parents of the child in question — deliver him special gifts. Fili’s fifteenth name-day is fast approaching, and with it the traditional gift of the _'agani-zagar_ , a young dwarf's first weapon.
> 
> Written for the Day 5 [HobbitAdvent](http://hobbitadvent.tumblr.com) prompt "Tradition."

It's late in the evening, but Thorin is, uncharacteristically, still in his workshop when Dwalin pokes his head in and says, "Oi, you. You've missed supper."

"I'm working," Thorin says, and turns his attention back to the block of wood in his hands.

Dwalin eyes him for a moment — sitting at the seldom-used little table, turning a block of wood that’s been carved into a sort of rough cone shape over and over in his hands, and frowning at it — and then says decisively, "No, you're not. You're no sort of woodworker. Anyway, Dis sent me to fetch you home, so hurry up."

Thorin, having just settled on the next cut, ignores him in favor of picking up a knife. He angles it carefully along one side of the block, digs the edge in carefully, and carves off a long, smooth curl of wood — or that is his intent, at least. In fact, he digs the knife in rather farther than he means to, slices off a great crooked hunk of wood, and says, with feeling, "Bugger."

"You're a menace," Dwalin informs him, stepping forward and plucking the knife out of his hand; this gives him a view of the heap of wooden splinters piled in a basket under the table, enough to make up the block Thorin is working on several times over, and he snorts. "Good grief, have you been doing this all night? It's a wonder you haven't lost any fingers. What the hell are you playing at, anyway?"

"I'm not _playing at_ anything," Thorin says rather crossly, tossing the block back down on the table. "Think for five seconds, would you? It's a fortnight to Fili's name-day, and he's fifteen this year; what do you think I'm making?"

"By the looks of it so far, mainly kindling," Dwalin says, and neatly dodges the kick Thorin aims at his shin in return. "Fifteen already, is he? Durin's beard, but time does fly. So this is to be his _'agani-zagar_ , is it?"

Thorin gives a half-smile. "From the spirits of stone and mountain, aye," he agrees. "And at this point, they'd better turn up and craft it themselves, because you're quite right — I am no woodworker."

"Why use wood, then?" Dwalin asks, with a gesture toward the anvil. "Forge him a real sword. Think how excited he'd be."

"A real sword, at fifteen?" Thorin snorts. "You know, I begin to see why Dis doesn't like you to watch the boys."

Dwalin rolls his eyes, turning around and hoisting himself up to sit on the edge of the table. "Didn't say anything about putting an edge on it, did I? Just a blunt blade, light enough so he can swing it—"

"And so he can't bludgeon Kili with it," Thorin puts in.

"Aye, that too," Dwalin agrees with a grin. "For that matter, it needn't even be proper steel — you could use any old pot-metal, really, so long as it shines. He'll be the envy of the schoolyard."

"Hmm," Thorin says, levering himself out of the chair and stretching. "Well, Dis still might not approve, but you're winning me over. Those schoolmates of his could stand to be taken down a peg or two."

Dwalin frowns at that. "What d'you mean? Not having trouble at school, is he?"

"The usual childish nonsense, mostly," Thorin says with a sigh. "They've been discussing the spirits of stone and mountain, and apparently come to the conclusion there aren't any. It's this one lad, though — Hani or Haki or something — told everyone that the gifts _really_ come from your father, and then made a point of asking Fili whether he thought he'd still get anything this year."

"Little bastard," Dwalin says, glaring. " _Do_ give him a sword with an edge on it, why don't you, and tell him he can use it on Hani or whatever he’s called."

Thorin laughs. "Maybe I will, at that. Now, I seem to recall you said something about supper..."

Two weeks later, when Fili wakes up to find his _'agani-zagar_ — proper steel, after all, though the edges are carefully blunted and the blade has been kept light and short enough for a child's use — waiting on the end of his bed, Thorin can hear his shriek of excitement (and Kili's accompanying shout of "See, I _told_ you, they _did_ come, stupid old Haki doesn’t know anything!") from the kitchen in spite of the three closed doors between them.

"Show _that_ to bloody Haki, see what he has to say about spirits then," he mutters into his mug of tea, and grins.


	11. Hobbit Advent: Warmth -- young dwarves camping out on a cold night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On a clear, moonless winter’s night, the youngest of Erebor’s nobles are dragged out for a night of astronomy — navigating by stone-sense is all well and good, but it’s useful to know the stars as well — and a campout. Unfortunately, clear winter nights tend to be bloody cold...
> 
> Written for the Day 11 [HobbitAdvent](http://hobbitadvent.tumblr.com) prompt "Warmth."

It’s a moonless night, pitch-black and perfectly clear, and so cold that even inside the tent Frerin can see his breath — a perfect night for stargazing. Unfortunately, though, they’re _done_ stargazing, and now it’s simply too cold and dark and spooky to sleep.

_Not spooky_ , he quickly revises that thought. _Just dark, and cold._ He huffs, as if to prove his own point to himself by way of the clouds of steam he creates; then it occurs to him to wonder whether he can make a smoke ring like Granddad can, and he spends an entertaining few minutes huffing and puffing, pulling various odd faces to see what effect that has on the shape of the steam cloud, and then rolling over to breathe on the grass and see whether it makes frost. That, after a moment, turns into breathing on the grass and pretending he’s a dragon — a really big and powerful dragon, like the ones from Granddad’s stories — and the grass is the forest that was foolish enough to grow in his way.

Then there’s a noise from somewhere outside the tent, and Frerin freezes, feeling his eyes go wide.

_It wasn’t a big noise_ , he tells himself, as calmly and firmly as he can manage, and it’s true — it was a very quiet noise indeed, just a faint crackle, like ice breaking. It’s not a very reassuring thought, though; perhaps a tiny, quiet noise means that whatever made it is tiny and harmless, or _perhaps_ it just means that the giant horrible monster that’s creeping up on them is trying very hard to be sneaky.

There’s another little crackling noise, and suddenly Frerin’s resolve — to act grown-up, to be brave, to _definitely not_ do anything that will make Thorin roll his eyes and call him a baby — breaks. He’s sleeping closest to the front of the tent, and the noises are coming from that direction; there’s only one way to get away from them, and that’s to gather his blankets around him and launch himself toward the back of the tent, jumping over both of the other boys and landing in the warm — and presumably safe — space at Dwalin’s back.

"Hmmf," Dwalin says drowsily as Frerin worms his way into his bedroll, and then, "Whassat? Someone there?"

"It’s just me," Frerin whispers, as quietly as he can. "Don’t wake Thorin."

“‘M awake already,” Thorin mumbles from Dwalin’s other side. “You kicked me in the ribs jumping over there. What’s all the fuss, anyway?”

Frerin chews his lip for a moment, and then hits on the perfect excuse. “ _You_ made me sleep closest to the front,” he says, “and it’s freezing. I wanted to get warm.”

"Don’t see why you had to jump all the way over here, though," Dwalin says through a yawn. "Could’ve just rolled over and pestered Thorin. He has to put up with you, you’re brothers."

Frerin shrugs. “You’re warmer, though. ‘Cause you’re biggest.”

"Makes perfect sense," Thorin says; by the sound of his voice, he’s already drifting back toward sleep. Then the crackling sound that set Frerin to worrying comes again, louder and closer this time, and this time Thorin clearly hears it too — he sits bolt upright in his bedroll, eyes wide, and hisses, "What was that?"

"It’s a monster," Frerin blurts, squirming closer to Dwalin in the hope that he’ll find some protection there. "It’s really big and horrible and it’s sneaking up to eat us, I know it."

"Don’t be stupid, there’s no such—" Thorin starts, and then the flap at the front of the tent is pulled open and all three of them scream.

The monster — which is rather smaller than Frerin’s been expecting; smaller than him, in fact, which considering he’s only fourteen is very small indeed — seems to be surprised by their reaction; it gives a startled little squeak of its own, and stops in the entrance to the tent and stares at them for a moment. Then it steps forward, and that toddling gait is familiar; Thorin, who’s flung himself backward nearly on top of Dwalin and Frerin, lets out a breath and says, “ _Dís_? You’re s’posed to be in the girls’ tent, what’re you doing _here_?”

“‘S cold,” the monster — not such a monster after all, really — says, and then, taking another step forward and flinging itself into the pile of dwarves at the back of the tent, “‘S warm here. Dwal’s warm.”

"See?" Frerin says, and generously lets Dis snuggle in between him and Dwalin. "You _are_ warmest. Like I said.”

"Right," Dwalin says, with a long-suffering tone and a roll of his eyes — but, on the bright side, he doesn’t actually make any move to get away from them.


	12. Outlander-inspired: Billa is offered a choice of husband

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of nonsense based on [a gifset](http://leaper182.tumblr.com/post/97476763321/wait-this-seriously-happened-on-the-show-o-o)... from a TV adaptation I haven't watched... of a book series I don't read. I don't know, y'all, I blame Leaper182.

The hubbub of dwarvish voices in the parlor rises, falls, and then rises again, this time to a sustained roar; then one voice — Thorin's, Billa guesses — shouts out above the rest, a few harsh-sounding syllables she can't make sense of, and the other voices very suddenly drop off.

She takes another step down the hall, straining to hear — they're definitely still talking, just much quieter than before, and they seem to be taking it in turns rather than all shouting over one another. She still can't make any of it out, though, not without rounding the corner, and if she does that they'll spot her and (presumably) clam up until she's gone away again.

As she's standing there, silently debating whether to risk just poking her head around the corner, there's an unexpected roar of laughter, and then quiet again — and a set of footsteps, loud, heavy, dwarven footsteps, coming her way.

She turns and scurries back toward the bedroom where she's supposedly resting, flinging herself back into the armchair, fumbling to pick up her book, and hoping that will be enough to make it appear that she's merely been reading rather than trying to eavesdrop.

The dwarf who appears in the doorway a moment later — the big bald one, what's his name, Dwalin? — doesn't seem fooled. He glances over his shoulder down the hallway, then back at her, snorts, and says, "I take it you overheard our discussion."

Billa briefly considers her options, then decides to go for Charmingly Brazen and says with a smile, "Well, I tried to, anyway. Couldn't make out much of it."

"Hm," the dwarf grunts, and regards her for a moment. "Well. The gist of it is, we can't have an unmarried lass tramping about with a dozen men. It's unseemly."

"Oh." Billa shrugs, not particularly bothered — _more peace and quiet for me, then_. "So I can't come along. You'll have to find your burglar elsewhere."

The dwarf actually laughs out loud at that. "Not a chance. The wizard's very insistent — either you come along, or he stays behind. No, we've got a better plan than that."

"Oh, _no_ ," Billa says, staring at him in undisguised horror. "No. I'm to _marry_ you?"

The dwarf, to her surprise, looks nearly as horrified as she feels. " _No_ ," he says firmly. "I mean — look, I agreed to play messenger, that's all. It wasn't myself I meant to nominate."

"Well, who, then?" Billa says crossly, because all this circuitous dwarven nonsense is getting frankly ridiculous. "For heaven's sake. Do dwarves always take this long to get to the point?"

"Your choice of two. I'll fetch them," the dwarf says, either not noticing or simply ignoring her irritation; then he turns and bellows down the hall, "Oi! Send 'em down!"

Two more sets of heavy-booted footsteps tromping down the hall, and then the two dwarves — her two choices of _husband_ , if she is understanding this dwarvish madness correctly — appear in the doorway.

The dwarves, apparently, have selected for her either the one who looks barely into his tweens and whose hair appears to have been cut with the aid of a pudding-bowl, or the one with the curled whiskers and the unacceptably cheerful attitude about being burned alive by dragons.

She's not at all sure she can bear this.


	13. A dancing lesson in Erebor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bilbo and Bofur take a ballroom (or setting appropriate) dance class together," prompt sent by [fogbreaker](http://fogbreaker.tumblr.com)
> 
> This ficlet takes place in the same timeline as my fic [Bride and Bridegroom](http://archiveofourown.org/works/743516), although you don't need to have read that one for this one to make sense.

“I don’t see what we have to have _lessons_ for,” Nori grouses, not quietly. “I’ve been to plenty of weddings and never had a dancing lesson in my life, and somehow I’ve survived this far.”

“Ah, but have you been to a _high-class_ wedding, that’s the question,” Bofur puts in. “I reckon they want a little finer dancing than a load of old miners stomping about and clapping hands.”

“Fancy my own brother having a wedding that’s too high-class for the likes of me,” Nori says, and then hastily adds “Not that I don’t approve, mind,” as Dori, standing at the other end of the room, turns and glares at him.

“Well, it’s just as well for me either way,” Billa says lightly. “I don’t fancy my chances keeping up with a miner’s dance on my first try, either, and at least this way I’ll have some company in my confusion.”

The dancing class goes smoothly for a quarter-hour or so; Dori may not be a great teacher, but he knows the steps forward and backward, and Balin, helping to deliver the lesson, is something of a softening influence. Then they change from a simple circle dance to a partnered dance that calls for much more complex steps, and everything immediately falls apart.

“Stop! Stop,” Dori cries for what must be the tenth time, the two lines of dancers stumbling to a halt. “Good gracious, what a mess. Once again: leaders come forward with your _right_ foot, followers turn on your _left_ , what are you two doing now?”

That last is directed to Fili and Kili, who’ve somehow ended up as partners and have been squabbling the entire time over which of them should dance the lead, as their ongoing whispered argument escalates to a shoving match. They both quail under Dori’s glare, though, and Kili sheepishly retreats to his place beside Billa in the followers’ line.

Dori gives him one last glower for good measure, then clears his throat. “Right. From the beginning again. One, two, right hands, turn—”

Billa makes the turn seamlessly and smiles up at Bofur, feeling momentarily confident. Them someone stumbles into her from behind, knocking her off-balance; she yelps and turns around to see Fili, apparently in retaliation for being shoved into her, lower his shoulder and tackle Kili into Nori, who swears and aims a kick at both brothers’ shins, and in a matter of moments the neat lines of dancers have dissolved into a melee, even Dori and Balin wading into the fray. She takes several hurried steps backward, out of the way; a moment later Bofur fights his way free, too, and joins her on the sideline.

“ _Well_ ,” Billa says. “So much for Ori’s lovely traditional wedding, I suppose.”

“Ah, good news on that front,” Bofur says cheerily, surveying the fracas before them. “Strictly speaking, this is _very_ traditional for a dwarvish wedding party.”


	14. Bofur/Billa, flower crowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bofur making Billa a flower-crown," prompt sent by [leaper182](http://leaper182.tumblr.com).

“That one,” Billa says, pointing overhead, “looks like a potato.”

There’s a snort from somewhere behind her, and Bofur says, “You say _every_ cloud looks like a potato. I’m beginning to think you just have a potato fixation.”

“Or I’m just very lazy at making up cloud-shapes.” She yawns. “My cousins would always want to play at it, when we were little, and I’d get bored and end up dozing off in the grass, or sitting by myself making daisy crowns for all of us.”

“There’s an idea,” Bofur says, very soft, as if he’s mostly talking to himself; then a warm hand lands in her hair — probably mussing the curls, but it’s so pleasant lying on the sun-warmed grass, she can’t be bothered to tell him to knock it off — and he adds a bit more loudly, “You go on lolling about in the sunshine, there, and if you do doze off I won’t be offended — I’ll even have a little surprise for you when you wake.”

“I do like your surprises,” Billa says, and pulls Bofur’s hand down out of her hair to plant a kiss on his knuckles. Then she lets him go, stretches, yawns again, and closes her eyes — it really is the perfect spring afternoon for a nap in a meadow.

When she startles awake, some time later, she spends a few moments of dreadful confusion looking around for whatever it was that woke her: a noise? A drop of rain? Then she hears it again — Bofur, cursing quietly just over her shoulder — and sits up at once, asking, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Bofur, when she turns to find him, is sitting tailor-style on the ground, staring down at a heap of white and yellow flowers in his lap with a look of deep dismay. At her question he looks up, gestures helplessly at the flowers, and says, “I’ve broken them.”

“You’ve _what_?” She slides a bit closer, reaches for one of the flowers; when she picks it up, two more come along, their stems loosely entwined. “What in the world have you been doing?”

“It’s a daisy crown,” Bofur says, as if it should be terribly obvious. “Like you said you’d make for your cousins. I was going to set it in your hair and then wake you, but when I went to pick it up it all fell apart.”

“ _Dwarves_ ,” Billa says, shaking her head, which makes Bofur put on such a wounded expression she can’t help but laugh. “Really, you’ve never made a daisy-chain before? Here — look, like this, it’s easy once you have the knack of it—”

She helps Bofur finish his first, and lets him set it on her head; then she makes one of her own, all pink and yellow buttercups, and is just reaching up to steal Bofur’s hat and settle the crown in its place when he catches her by the waist, pulls her up into his lap, and kisses her soundly.

An hour later, as the sun is setting and they’re gathering up their picnic things and starting back toward the gates, Bofur leans over and picks a single flower out of her hair. “All that work, teaching me,” he says, “and I still ended up ruining your little crown.”

Billa laugh, shaking her head to knock the rest of the flowers loose. “I think,” she says, “it was more than worth the trouble.”


	15. Fili/Kili (non-incest AU), pirates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The expanded version of a "three-sentence fics" prompt; [leaper182](http://leaper182.tumblr.com) wanted a pirate AU for Fiannar and Kili from my A Long Engagement universe.

Kili is under strict orders to stay in his cabin, out of sight, until somebody comes to fetch him. He follows those orders for a full five minutes after the noise of fighting stops; then he gets bored, and somewhat concerned that he’s been forgotten, and decides it’s probably safe to poke his head out and look around.

It is decidedly not safe.

He surveys the scene — a few of the Sparrow’s crewmen lying wounded or dead, the rest held at swordpoint on the quarterdeck (Ori, he notes with a surge of relief, is among them), and three of the pirates’ pistols levelled directly at him — and says brightly, “Good evening! I surrender!”

The pirates seem somewhat taken aback by that. One of them — a woman, sharp-nosed, dark-haired and skinny — looks him up and down and offers the guess, “Ship’s boy?”

“Dressed like that?” another scoffs. “Paying passenger, I say — which means he’s worth something. Oi, Captain! Come and have a look at this!”

“At what?” a voice calls from up on the quarterdeck; Kili turns to look, and freezes.

The woman peering over the rail at him — the pirates’ captain, evidently — is short, well-muscled, holding a vicious-looking cutlass in each hand; she has a mass of wheat-gold braids tumbling around her shoulders and a broad, cocky grin on her face, and she is _spectacularly_ beautiful. For a long moment Kili can only stare, slack-jawed.

“Haki reckons this one might be worth a ransom,” the dark-haired pirate shouts, and that jars Kili back to reality; finding his voice, he volunteers, “I am! Definitely! My uncle’s the governor of Erebor Island—” which _was_ true, anyway, up until a week ago, and never mind that most of Thorin’s wealth was lost along with the position— “and I’m sure he’d pay handsomely for my safe return. You’d better take me with you.”

There is a brief silence before the pirate captain says, “I’m sorry, I feel I may have misunderstood. Are you _volunteering_ to be held for ransom?”

“I’m just saying it may be in both our best interests,” Kili says, and smiles in what he hopes is a charming sort of way, and pretends not to hear Ori’s heartfelt groan from the quarterdeck.


	16. Dwalin and Ori, stealing the rival school's mascot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a trope meme — the prompt was Dwalin/Ori in a high school AU.

“It’s up!” someone shouts in Ori’s ear; he jumps, nearly slams his locker shut on his own fingers, and turns to see Fili behind him, grinning from ear to ear.

“ _What’s_ up?” he demands, turning to start toward his first class.

Fili grabs his shoulder, though, and gently tugs him in the opposite direction. “The football roster!” he says, in a tone that suggests Ori is an idiot for not having guessed it. “Come on, you have to look at it with me, I’m too nervous.”

“Yes, I can see you’re terrified,” Ori answers, rolling his eyes, but he does allow himself to be dragged down the hall to the coach’s office.

He half-expects it to be like a movie scene, the bulletin board surrounded by a crowd of boys all clamoring to see if they’ve made the team. In fact, of course, most of the roster was set well before last week’s walk-on tryouts, and there are only a few people in the hallway; the two of them can freely step up to the list and scan for their names.

“Made it!” Fili crows, jabbing a finger at the list, and grabs Ori by the shoulders to spin him around in some sort of enthusiastic dance. He hesitates at the look on Ori’s face, though, tilts his head to one side, and asks, “What? What’s wrong?”

“I’m going to have to drop band,” Ori groans, reaching up to underline his own name with a finger. “And my brother’s going to _kill_ me.”

* * *

Ori takes another look at the note, double-checking time and place; then he stuffs it back into his jeans pocket, takes a deep breath, and steps around the corner into the parking lot.

"What’s _he_ doing here?” Gloin says immediately, which seems like an auspicious start.

Dwalin comes to his defense, though, hopping down from where he’s sitting on the tailgate of his truck; he steps up close to Gloin, and _looms_. “I invited him,” he says, in something like a growl. “Have a problem with that?”

"I don’t see what we need—”

“He’ll fit through the window,” Thorin speaks up from the shadows; Ori can barely see where he’s slouching against the fence. “We need him.”

Unlike Dwalin, he doesn’t move, doesn’t even look up; all the same, Gloin backs down at once. “Sure,” he says, raising his hands, palms out. “If you say so. Welcome to the party, shrimp.”

“Ignore him,” Dwalin says with a wink, and claps one huge hand down on Ori’s shoulder. “Hop in the truck, I’ll explain on the way.”

Which is how Ori winds up stuck halfway through the window, Mirkwood High School’s prized elk statue under one arm, struggling in vain to get loose as the beam of the campus security guard’s flashlight bobs steadily toward them and most of his teammates scatter back toward the truck.

Not quite all of them, though — Dwalin starts after them, then swears, turns around and runs back. “Come _on_ ,” he says through his teeth, grabbing Ori by the elbow and pulling. “Just drop the stupid elk, forget it—”

“It’s too late, I am _really stuck_ ,” Ori pants. "Look, you’ve got to get out of here — I’ve never been in any real trouble before, they’ll go easy on me, but if you get caught—”

“Fuck that,” Dwalin snorts, “what kind of asshole ditches a friend like that?” And with that, he turns around, folds his arms across his chest, and leans back against the wall beside Ori’s window to wait for the security guard.


	17. Young Frodo drags his cousins into trouble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fill for tolkienreadalong bingo on Tumblr, for the prompt "Pipe-weed".

Frodo has been living in Bag End for a year and a half, and Bilbo is no longer entirely surprised to open the front door to find a hobbit he vaguely recognizes as one of old Hugo Hornblower’s sons, either Mosco or Griffo — which means he’s come a fair distance, really; both of them farm in the Southfarthing — holding his young cousin by the jacket-collar and glowering.

He is not, however, prepared for the farmer to shove Frodo forward and say, with the sort of cheerfulness that suggests barely-hidden menace, “Look what I found in my shipment this morning!”

“ _In_ your shipment?” Bilbo echoes, and then turns his gaze on Frodo and says in his best parental tones, “Young hobbit, what _have_ you been up to?”

“Nothing,” Frodo says mulishly; the farmer, who still has a hold on his collar, gives him a shake, and he grimaces and protests, “We wouldn’t have done any harm!”

 _We_ , Bilbo notes, and leans a bit to look around the bulk of Griffo (or possibly Mosco); sure enough, there’s another tweenaged hobbit-lad standing with his feet half-off the edge of the porch, clearly prevented from bolting only by the farmer’s firm grip on his elbow. “Oh dear,” Bilbo says with a sigh, because if Frodo has managed to get _Lotho_ into trouble they’re in for a long day indeed; then he steps back, opens the door a bit wider, and adds, “Well, you’d all better come inside so we can straighten this out.”

Mosco (the mystery is settled when he introduces himself, gruffly, over their first cup of tea) fills in the general outline of the story: he’s spent the last two days packing a shipment of pipe-weed, enough to fill one waggon and half of another, and was just giving it a last looking-over this morning when he heard a strange whistling from the half-full waggon, and upon investigating noticed that the crates had been moved around to create a hidden open space in the center. “And what should I find in _there_ ,” he finishes, clearly taking pleasure in unwinding the story in spite of his irritation at Frodo and Lotho, “but these two young rascals, and no less than _four_ packs and bedrolls spread out between them!”

“Wait a moment,” Bilbo interrupts. “Four packs? Well, shouldn’t there be another couple of troublemakers in my parlor, then?”

“Ah,” Mosco says, laying a finger alongside his nose, “that’s what I reckon the whistling was about — that these two had caught sight of me coming, and whistled to warn the others off.”

“And didn’t have the sense to run for it yourselves, of course,” Bilbo sighs; Mosco glowers, and he remembers himself and adds, “Or not to mess about in other people’s waggons in the first place, for preference! And honestly, packs and bedrolls — what in the world were you planning?”

“Nothing!” Frodo protests, at the same moment that Lotho, apparently, cracks and blurts out, “We only wanted to see your dwarves!”

There’s a brief silence in the parlor, and then Mosco and Bilbo both burst out laughing. “ _My_ dwarves!” Bilbo manages, after a moment. “Mercy, fancy the pair of you presenting yourselves at the gate and saying, ‘We’re here to see our Uncle Bilbo’s dwarves!’”

“Fancy the pair of them thinking they’d see dwarves at all!” Mosco wheezes, slapping his knee. “If you ruffians paid as much mind to your letters as to fairy-stories about _dwarves_ , you might have noticed those crates were marked for the Westfarthing!”

Eventually Mosco departs, taking Lotho with him — “Best see this one home as well, and see what _his_ folks think of his grand adventuring ways” — and Bilbo returns to the parlor after seeing him off, takes a seat on the couch beside Frodo and says, trying very hard not to laugh, “The truth, now, my lad. Did you honestly think you were off to the Lonely Mountain?”

“'Course not,” Frodo says, rather indignantly. “But there’s dwarves in the West, too, and they’re a lot closer. And didn’t you say some of your dwarves went back and settled there, in the end?”

Bilbo nods, impressed despite himself. “That does seem a better plan,” he says. “And it does show you’ve been listening, at least, and studying your maps. I must say, though — I’m afraid this won’t improve our standing with Lobelia and Otho one bit.”

“What a pity,” Frodo sighs, with a convincingly hangdog look; then he catches Bilbo’s eye, and once again laughter rings out through the rooms of Bag End.


End file.
